


Total Work of Art

by htebazytook



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Music, Season/Series 01, Seduction, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: Season 1 fluff.  Will and Hannibal attend a Beethoven concert series.  Naturally, all roads lead to seduction.





	Total Work of Art

The already soft lights dim politely. Then they pulse back to life. 

Hannibal doesn’t so much hear the conversations around them begin to quiet as witness Will react to it.

“So," Will says. "Anything I should know about this piece before they start, or . . . ?”

“Not to clap between movements.”

Will rolls his eyes. “I’m not a complete philistine.”

Now, silence. Now tuning. An ordered cacophony of chords sways through the black-costumed people on the dais – a thick sound that is more uncivilized than the ordered notes that will follow. It’s a tantalizing glimpse into the rawness string instruments are capable of.

Will checks his phone one last time before darkness descends and takes away Hannibal’s view of his face.

The players' complexions are stark under their spotlight against the blonde wood paneling. They sit erect in their seats with instruments cradled precisely. Poised. Eye contact, and the first violin’s breath and bow begin the quartet.

*

It’s a lovely part of town this time of year. Lingering Christmas lights in the barren trees and their reflection on wet pavement, melting dirty snow piles, the rosy urban glow obscuring the night sky. The world feels both isolating and communal. 

Will shoves his hands stiffly into the pockets of his coat. “I can’t decide if slush or ice is worse,” he says.

“Some places in the world have heated roads to negate the issue. Reykjavik, northern Japan . . . “

They walk in silence for awhile. Hannibal checks his watch - there is ample time before the concert, and it’s a pleasure to be leisurely.

Will’s pace slows to a halt. His eye has been caught by a brightly lit café. “I’m starving,” he admits. “You?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “No, but I’ll gladly accompany you. A hot coffee in this weather would be invigorating.”

It is so humid inside the café that Hannibal debates taking off his overcoat. The line is inordinately long, and the menu is conveyed by somebody’s freehand scrawl on a chalkboard above the register. 

“The early, middle, and late quartets all have their charms,” Hannibal says. “As might be expected of any composer’s early works, Beethoven’s quartets began relatively predictably. They are more simple to follow in a sense, and closer in structure to the works of the early 18th century. Certainly not boring, but there is a marked difference between them and the late quartets which are quite experimental. Even denounced as deviant by some musical purists at the time of their composition.”

“Beethoven went deaf though, didn’t he? Couldn’t that account for the nature of his later works?”

“I have never thought so,” Hannibal says. “It’s a common dismissal applied to artistic visionaries, isn’t it? Something wrong in the mind, some defect of the senses.” Hannibal can feel his speech begin to accelerate and takes a moment to restrict it. “Anybody who has truly experienced music knows it to be emotional - something to be felt deep in the marrow. It’s the result of a carefully arranged set of tones. It has little to do with hearing. One might as well call a blaring car horn ‘music’.”

Will considers this. “You make it sound like emotions are external forces.”

“Aren’t they?”

Will has no answer.

“What are you planning to order, Will?”

“I don’t know. It seems like it’s mainly vegetarian food.”

“As befits a vegan restaurant.”

“Seriously? I don’t know how I didn’t notice that. I’m guessing you aren’t the biggest fan of veganism?”

“I have no opinion,” Hannibal says. “Did you know that there are some more extreme forms of veganism that preclude the consumption of figs? In the course of their pollination by wasps the wasps are often absorbed into the flesh of the fig."

Will frowns. “Okay . . . but if the primary objection to eating meat is inhumane methods slaughter then one little wasp fulfilling its natural role hardly seems worth the trouble. It’s nature at work, even symbiotic, and not some pointless manmade cruelty.” 

Hannibal lets out a smile. “My thoughts exactly.”

Will turns from him to peruse the chalky menu.

Hannibal leans closer to Will’s ear to be heard above other patrons' conversations. “And also honey, ” Hannibal says.

Will startles. “Huh?”

“Another sweetener disallowed by a vegan diet.”

Hannibal can’t quite read Will’s expression, but it’s accompanied by amusement around the eyes. “Heaven forefend we should sweeten our meals. So what, in your expert opinion, do you suggest I order?”

“Soup? More nourishing than a salad but not too heavy of a meal. And hot, of course.”

There is a tiny booth in a back corner waiting for them. Hannibal’s coffee is passable if not palatable, and he sips at it while Will waits for his chili. It soon arrives balanced in the amateur arms of a woman who favors a tea tree oil based shampoo. Will offers him a spoonful.

Hannibal takes the proffered sample. Comme ci comme ça. 

“It’s not bad,” Will says, although he is eating too quickly to properly savor it.

“Indeed. However it does not happen to be vegan.”

Will laughs. “How so?”

“Anchovies. They’re used in many sauces. In fact you may be surprised how many animal byproducts are used in supposedly meatless foods.”

The conclusion of their walk to the concert is refreshingly brisk. Hannibal is warmed from the coffee, and Will seems similarly at ease, hands relaxed at his sides in the icy air and a hinted at flush across his cheekbones.

“Where's the concert again?” Will asks.

“It’s an art museum, but not a strictly conventional one. The artworks on display are somewhat unusual.”

“Why do they do that? Are atypical venues like that just for the wow factor, or is it some kind of cross promotional arrangement with the museum . . . ?”

“I must admit advertising strategies for classical music can fall victim to gimmicks. Not everyone has the inclination to appreciate music without a twist.”

“So it does work?”

“Maybe in a way similar to fishing, which I suppose you will appreciate. It catches the eye of those who are unaware, but it’s only after getting close enough to experience well performed music that the hook sinks in permanently.”

*

The cellist is particularly sensitive to the music – she fades into the background when necessary, brings out counterpoints with a subtle warmth that enhances the piece. She is no selfish soloist, but when the melodic spotlight does fall on her she brings the music to life with attentiveness to what is written in her part, a simplicity that is by far more effective than the unchecked vibrato of the second violinist. Sloppy, saccharine application of vibrato does not a passionate performance make.

The music slows, impossibly delicate with the notes brushing against each other in precarious harmony. It's a better tension than the strident finale that is to come, and Hannibal imagines his skin is leeching it from the air.

In the corner of Hannibal's eye there is movement. He snatches Will's wrist reflexively to stop him from clapping. 

Will has been wakened from a trance. His head swivels in surprise to observe Hannibal's grip on him. Will's pulse is hot and quick and the tendons under Hannibal's thumb are taut. To experience good music is a full-bodied pleasure, but to share that experience is something primal.

Will barely remembers to extract his arm during the pause between movements.

Nature and nurture are hypothesized to have an impact on any personality. Plenty of psychopathic brains have commonalities. Perhaps Hannibal’s brain was bathed in the wrong chemical in the womb and he now requires more extreme stimuli to engage his neural reward system. Perhaps it is simply a matter of taste.

Whatever the reasons, Hannibal has always cultivated a fondness for savoring, from cuisines to concerti. Carefully seasoned and simmered marinades are the lifeblood (and occasionally, literal blood) of many dishes. The same seems to be true of desire.

*

It's not the first time Will has come in for a nightcap after a concert, but this particular occasion feels more elegant than the others. This could be a side effect of the snow falling smoothly outside into darkness, or of the buttery light and purpled shadows in this room of the house. Also, the concert hall had been black tie, not that all of the audience had adhered to the dress code. Of course Hannibal made sure that Will did.

It's a rented tux and is ill-fitting, but Hannibal has come to prefer an unpolished edge to Will. Otherwise, what's the point?

Hannibal crosses to the liquor cart while Will settles into an armchair. The bourbon is not at optimum temperature but it can't be helped on a cold night in an extra warm place. Will seems not to mind. In fact he downs all of it straight away.

"Stressed?" Hannibal asks. He refills Will's glass before taking the seat across from him in an echo of their therapy sessions.

Will sighs. "Just overworked. You know, the usual."

"Mm. Perhaps if Jack Crawford was better at his own job, he wouldn't find it necessary to abuse your talents to exhaustion."

"Next you'll be saying the entire F.B.I. ought to work together to investigate crimes," Will says. "I _think_ you're forgetting that the B stands for 'bureaucracy', more or less."

"I must admit I'm discouraged to hear you are still feeling tense after such a sublime performance."

Will offers a tired smile. "Not at all, Dr. Lecter. The music tonight was beautiful. It's only now that it's over that I'm remembering to be tense."

"Yes," Hannibal says. "Music has an immersive effect on me also."

Will only slouches further into his chair, nursing his glass and watching the snow.

"Speaking of relaxation - you may loosen your tie, Will."

Will glances at Hannibal's throat. "You haven't." 

Hannibal wants to capture that gaze more fully. He unties the bow around his neck with a one-handed deftness that he doesn't mind showing off.

Will laughs. A little snide and a little breathless. He attempts to free himself of his own tie but promptly makes a mess of it. His hands fall to his knees in defeat. "Help?" 

Hannibal walks over, walks behind him. A perfect spot to inhale Will's spicy two-in-one shampoo/conditioner. He guides the tie apart, easy as a slipknot. "There you are."

"Thanks," Will says, twisting his head back to look Hannibal in the eye. "You're good at that."

Hannibal holds eye contact a moment longer before returning to his chair. “I wasn’t sure whether you would accept my invitation to this concert series. I’m pleased you did.”

“You must’ve had other people you could’ve asked, though. People with a better musical pedigree.”

“Yes, but how boring that would have been.”

Will's expression is questioning.

“You are a singular personality, Will. Your company is often preferable.”

Will gives a bitter little laugh. “It’s nice to know somebody thinks so. Hey – you know that fast middle movement in the concert last week? The dance-y one. You know . . . ”

Hannibal stands and rebuttons his jacket. He strides over to the harpsichord and strikes a series of brittle notes. “This?”

Only now does Will finally look relaxed. “Yes! That’s it. Yes. That's been in my head for days.”

Hannibal nods. He plays around with that little fragment of the music, adds another hand to give it some supportive chords and flourishes it with occasional mordents. He’s aware of Will’s presence encroaching.

Will joins Hannibal behind the bench. “I learned how to play some George Michael on guitar when I was fourteen. But I couldn’t for the life of me tell you how to do it, now. It is decidedly _not_ like riding a bike.”

Hannibal tilts his head while he thinks this over. “There is always some muscle memory when a task is repeated frequently enough. Think of the ease with which you shave, for instance.”

Will laughs and scrubs at his face. “Actually I’m not sure if I do shave frequently enough for that.”

“Sit,” Hannibal says. He pulls out the bench for him. “Please.”

Will obeys. Positions his hands fearlessly over all the wrong keys. He glances over his shoulder at Hannibal and seems well aware of the hair spilling over his eyes just so. Hannibal is annoyed with Will’s lack of subtlety yet cannot help but admire the aesthetics. “Now what, maestro?”

"A scale, I believe, is always a good place to start." He rearranges Will's fingers very gently and is gratified by the unsuppressed shiver he receives in response.

Hannibal walks him through a major scale. Will picks it up quickly, and Hannibal becomes somewhat too captivated by him. To be able to watch his mind working out the problem up close. Hannibal is equally intrigued by the effect their proximity has on Will – a barely perceptible quickening of breath and a telltale shift on the bench. Hannibal allows his mind to wander. How would Will's mouth taste beyond the rye-cherry-smoke of the bourbon? How would he look with his tuxedo further desecrated?

“Am I going to have to start double billing you for harpsichord lessons as well as psychoanalysis?”

“You know perfectly well that we are only having conversations, Will.”

“So this is what, exactly?”

Hannibal shrugs. “Rehearsal.”

*

It is especially cold on the eve of the next concert. Because of this the heat in the church has been turned on higher than seems possible in such a cavernous space. The air is thick with lingering incense and the perfume and sweat of an audience shedding their winter coats. Hannibal follows their example, rolling up his sleeves as well. 

Will is staring. 

“Yes?”

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Hannibal looks down at his torso. “An Oxford shirt, it would appear.” No suit, no tie or waistcoat. Hannibal is aware of how he looks.

Will raises an eyebrow.

Hannibal raises one back. “It’s warm in here.”

“Uh huh.” Hannibal is pleased with Will’s inability to meet his eyes. 

At the conclusion of the first act the audience begins to murmur and mingle to remarkable effect in the yawning nave.

“How many more concerts after this one?" Will asks. "Don’t misunderstand me - I’m enjoying them, but playing all of a composer’s music, well all the quartets anyway, seems a little excessive.”

“A full quartet cycle is Gesamtkunstwerk. ‘Total art work.’ ”

“I can see that, but - “

“Wouldn’t you agree that one cannot appreciate a single movement of a piece in a vacuum? It requires all the movements together to create the desired result.”

“But that doesn’t have to be applied to all the quartets at once.”

Hannibal pauses, reels in his irritation. “You’re right. It doesn’t. But hearing them in total does enhance the understanding of each individually. It tells the bigger story. Of Beethoven’s life, primarily. Of his own shifting politics as well as those of the world he lived in, of his personality, of the influence he had on music and the influence the music of others had on him. It’s fascinating, if you know to look for it.”

“Like I said, I _am_ enjoying the concerts.”

“What about the music of the first act did you enjoy?”

“Well . . . The viola had an interesting counterpoint in the slow movement. Unexpected.”

“That is _what_ happened,” Hannibal says. “But how did it make you feel?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Well?”

“It’s - it was like - hm.”

“Physical.”

“Yeah, I guess . . . “

“Carnal.”

Will chuckles. “No?”

“You are sure about that? You didn’t find the scherzando riveting? It didn’t make your heart race or your body yearn for a deepening of the lush themes of the second movement? Sweet torture in the tension of the unresolved notes? I can think of nothing more descriptive of physical intimacy. It _is_ physically intimate.” 

As if by providence the lights dim, flashing a dark angular mask over Will’s face for a moment. When it re-illuminates his mouth is parted very slightly.

Will's voice is a little rough. "Well when you put it that way."

“Intermission is over,” Hannibal reminds him.

The church is crowded, probably moreso than it is on Sundays, and after the concert is over the avenues between the pews become congested with people. Without speaking, Will and Hannibal change direction in search of a less popular exit route. 

Hannibal is still able to hear the audience's distant footsteps and murmured discourse as they travel through the bowels of the building. The hallways become less well lit as they go, and it is because of this that Will wanders into a dead end accidentally. He turns around too quickly and runs into Hannibal. Another circumstance to force them closer. Hannibal could step back, it would be polite, or he could take his cue from Will's eyes and their acknowledgement of the moment's potential. Hannibal drops the coat he had been carrying in the crook of his arm to the floor and instead slides his arm vertical to the wall. Leaning, leaning, and heat. Only passivity from Will. With his free hand he explores the textures of Will's mouth and chin and throat. Will leans in at last and concedes a kiss.

Hannibal almost regrets having to let go of wondering what kind of kisser Will is. Anticipation is everything, but Will's ardent mouth is more than welcome. He's preoccupied with Hannibal's upper lip and uses his tongue only sparingly. 

Will extracts his mouth. "This is awfully sacrilegious, isn't it?" Even his whisper echoes through the stony chamber. "In a house of God, and all."

Hannibal takes the opportunity to sample more of him. He nudges his nose along Will's scratchy jawline and fastens his mouth on the bared skin below. "Profane," he says, lapping the mild saltiness from Will's neck. "Deviant."

“Certainly devi _ous_ , Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal takes his mouth again. Will hums approvingly and tries to catch Hannibal's wrists but is easily fended off. Hannibal twines their fingers together tightly, tightly – transforming the gesture from one of tenderness to dominance. He kisses Will and swallows his utterances one after the other. 

A heavy wooden door opens with a thud that helpfully obscures Will's gasp. A small group of people enter a room around the corner from them, maybe two or three, and they are quartet players by the sound of their conversation.

Will licks his lips and breathes, "What should we - ?"

Hannibal stoppers Will's mouth with his own. "Quiet," Hannibal says. "Completely."

Hannibal reaches between them, flattens his hand over Will's erection through his trousers and rubs slowly up and down. Will yields a gorgeous choked sound in the back of his throat and Hannibal bares his teeth in a grin. He bites Will's lower lip and reminds him: "Not a sound."

Hannibal slides down Will's body, interrupted by the harsh scratch of Will's wool coat and the obscene jut of his cock. Will's belt buckle jangles faintly and Will's head thumps audibly back against the wall but other than that they are silent. Part of Hannibal hopes they might be caught, just to discover Will's reaction. 

Hannibal works efficiently to free Will's cock of its entrapments. He lifts it up to lick underneath, sideways, up over the head, everywhere to commit the feel of it to memory. 

Will's breathing is ragged and Hannibal has to taste it. He stands up suddenly and fastens his mouth over Will's Adam's apple to feel it work, grips one side of Will's neck with his hand to gauge the tension of his tendons while dropping kisses along the other side. Will's carotid pulses hotly under his tongue. Hannibal murmurs into his ear, because it feels imperative: "You taste exquisite, by the way." Will clutches at Hannibal's coat and Hannibal is reminded of how feverish they both are, body heat trapped beneath heavy winter layers.

There is the sound of footsteps retreating far in the background – the musicians, surely. Hannibal assumes it is all of them until a cello begins to play. It's a slow measured minor scale with the heaviest of legatos between each note.

"Hmm." Hannibal drops to his knees again and takes Will into his mouth fully, vibrating with the music coming from the next room. As it rises, so does Hannibal's sucking kisses up Will's cock. And as it slows, so does the pace of his strokes.

Will grips Hannibal by the hair abruptly, hips beginning to stutter. Hannibal succumbs to the rapid pace Will craves and feels his own erection swell in response to Will's abandon. 

Will comes, as if by design, to the final notes of the cello's downward scale.

Hannibal waits a moment to swallow, taking note of Will's taste. He wipes saliva from his chin and rises to his feet again. Will's eyes are beautifully unfocused and his jaw is slack with bliss. 

The music springs back to life. A cello concerto this time? A partita?

Hannibal doesn't expect Will to force him back against the opposite wall – doesn’t expect a thigh pressing shamelessly between his own but any annoyance at being caught unawares is swiftly overshadowed by arousal.

Will bites Hannibal's earlobe, breathing damply, "Take your dick out so I don't ruin your stupid tailored clothes trying to undress you."

Hannibal unzips his trousers and neglects to point out that streaks of ejaculate have already compromised the clothes of all involved. "Happy?"

Will's hands are clumsy - tantalizingly so – as he reaches through the opening in Hannibal's underclothes. He gathers some of his own residual come to coat Hannibal with and begins stroking him softly.

Hannibal's breath catches.

"Happy?" Will whispers.

" _Yes_."

Will's mouth is impossibly plush. The kiss meanders deeper dizzyingly while Will's hand pumps his cock and their foreheads nudge together, Hannibal's hair getting plastered down with their combined sweat. The conspicuously rhythmic wet sounds of their hands and mouths crescendo but the cello plays on obliviously. The feeling of the music blurs with the sweet friction of Will's hand - a blinding symphony of sensation.

Will's mouth is demanding. His aroma. The violent struggle of notes from the next room. The scent of Will's skin and come and aftershave. A Bach suite singing relentlessly into him. In D minor?

When Hannibal spills between them it's messy and uncontrolled.

*

"Tell me how you are feeling, Will."

"Uncertain." Will's voice is monotonous.

"About what? The case you are currently assigned to?"

Will shakes his head slowly. "No. Uncertain about myself. About who I am . . . "

"Everybody feels disconnected from the identity they have chosen from time to time. And, one person can have more than one identity."

"Not disconnected. Just . . . confused."

"And are there times that you find yourself less confused?" Hannibal asks. "Are there times when you feel centered?"

"Yes . . . "

"Such as?"

"The concerts. Your concerts."

"Music provides a safe environment in which to feel unsafe emotions."

Hannibal's office is lit dimly this evening, but every swing of the illuminated metronome makes the room pulse like a heartbeat. Will's eyes are dead.

"What does music mean to you, Will?"

"Pleasure."

"And your murderers? When you step inside their minds, what do you feel as they are taking lives?"

"Excitement. Disgust." But he licks his lips. "It's provocatively taboo."

"What else?"

Will breathes deeply, eyes threatening to close. "Beauty."

"And if it was you with your hands on their victims' throats, what would you feel?"

"I – "

"Will."

"Pleasure."

Hannibal observes Will's unseeing eyes for a moment longer before rising to turn off the metronome. He reaches for it but finds himself hesitating.

"What do I make you feel?" Hannibal asks at length. 

Will's face eases into a smile and he laughs to himself.

Hannibal turns the metronome off and Will's chin drops to his chest. Hannibal locks it securely in a cabinet. It doesn't take long to record his notes on their session. 

Afterward, Hannibal cues up Bartók's _Folk Dances_ on the sound system and waits for Will to wake up.

*


End file.
